


The Boys Who Called Wolf

by Wanderbird



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Supernatural
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6733801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderbird/pseuds/Wanderbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was only a skinwalker. But the people it killed, that came back to life, that the boys could not bring themselves to hurt, that must be monsters themselves-- what were they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Totally just a wolf.

**Author's Note:**

> Heya! This is a much more recent fic of mine, not transferred from Ffn. Have fun :)  
> By the way, there's a little Marvel cameo here that I challenge you to find.

“You had better, better tell your bloody Captain something,” slurred a British-sounding voice a few seats away, masked by the overwhelming chatter of the bar. “Tell’im, tell that bloody wanker what he did to my, my Peggy, I felt her like I haven’t felt any, anyone in centuries! Then he comes right back again, y’see, n’pops in to say h’llo, right? N’ all of a sudden, she’s, she’s—“  
“Oh, I’m sure it’s all right, Artie. It’s just one person and she lives over here now, anyway. How bad can it be?”  
The woman in between the hunters and the drunk conversationalists got up, revealing—them.  
“Dean!” Sam gave his brother a quick punch on the shoulder. “Dean. Look.”  
Dean waved him off tipsily in favor of continuing to check out the barkeep and her rather lovely chest.  
“It’s them Dean, the two guys we saw the other day, killed by that skinwalker we were hunting. I’m sure of it.”  
“Oh, come on, Sam, they’re dead.”  
“Apparently not,” Sam replied grimly.  
  
-previously-  
  
Sam stood up from the body he had been examining, raked by clawmarks and immobile on the bloody floor of the warehouse beside another body with its throat torn out. “They’re dead,” he called softly. “Looks like this one tried to put up a fight, the poor guy.”  
Dean strolled over to him, eyes wary. “Impressive eyebrows.”  
Sam glared at his brother. “This isn’t the time to joke. We need to find that damned skinwalker before it kills anyone else.”  
  
-presently-  
  
When the pair stood up and moved toward the door, one with pale blond, spiky hair and the remarkable eyebrows Dean had noticed before, the other with a truly impressive cowlick and square, wire-rimmed glasses, the hunters followed. The man with glasses held his friend up easily, grinning hugely as they stumbled unevenly into the parking lot to lean against the wall. As soon as all four of them were out of sight of the road and bar, the brothers pulled their guns out and stood in front of the other two, weapons trained.  
“What are you?” Dean demanded.  
The American blinked, turning his grin on the hunter, apparently unfazed by the gun. “Heya dudes! I’m Alfred Jones and this is my friend Artie!”  
“I don’t think you understand me,” Dean repeated. “What are you?”  
He cocked his head, looking puzzled. “What do you mean?”  
The drunker of the two snorted. “You bloody idiot, he thinks you’re not human or something.” He was looking more sober by the moment. “Probabably—probably just another nutter. And my name, you git, is Arthur, not Artie!”  
“Oh!” The American gave a huge, spontaneous laugh that made Dean want to drop his gun there and then. Upon noticing this, the brothers both looked at their weapons. Oddly, they had automatically lowered them while talking to the pair of men. They glanced at each other, then pointed them back at the strangers.  
“You must be the Winchesters! I’ve heard so much about you, mostly everybody getting annoyed you guys keep breaking the law but hey, it’s cool! So long, bros! My car’s here! You coming, Artie?”  
A sleek black limousine decorated with a small American flag pulled up and a large white man in a suit stepped out, reaching for a gun. Alfred waved him off as he swaggered toward the car, smiling again at the Winchesters. The British man followed a moment later, seething. The bodyguard was already closing the door when the Winchesters thought to shoot, then realizing that their gun hands had again slid down to point at the ground. They stood silent for a moment until Dean finally spoke.  
“What the hell was that?”  
The car ride was spent in surly silence while Jackson drove the two nations back to America’s house.  
  
“Who the bloody hell were they?” Britain asked at last.  
America frowned worriedly. “The Winchesters. Two hunters of mine. I knew their dad.”  
“Hunters.”  
“Uh-huh!” America brightened up, grinning again.  
Britain seemed to fume. “You have active hunters, get attacked by your own folklore, not to mention the people who are supposed to protect you from it, and still refuse to believe in fairies?” he said incredulously.  
“Attacked by my own folklore?” America replied confusedly. “What do you mean?”  
Britain stared. “That bloody skinwalker, you git!”  
“You mean the wolf that killed us the other day?”  
“Wolf? Wolf?!” Britain shouted. “That wasn’t a bloody wolf! You- you—“ he opened and closed his mouth a few times in incomprehension. “You’re an idiot,” he finally settled on.  
  
“What the hell was that, Sam? I know how to hold a gun. You know how to hold a gun. And why the hell couldn’t we shoot?” Dean growled as he slammed on the gas, finally on the freeway.  
“I don’t know, man. I mean I feel like I could shoot, but all of a sudden I just didn’t want to. I just didn’t.”  
“We could have taken those two, even with the bodyguard.”  
“Yeah, Dean, but only if we could get our aim to stay steady.”  
“Exactly,” the older brother answered. “I felt it too. Can we find out who those people—creatures were?”  
“Well,” Sam replied, “we’ve got a name. Alfred Jones and Arthur something-or-other. Maybe I can, but we need to find internet first. Where are we headed anyway?”  
“Bobby.”  
“Good idea. Maybe he’ll know, and if not, Bobby’s better at research than I am. At first sight, I really don’t know what these are.”  
  
“So,” Bobby leaned back against his chair. “to recap: A week and a half ago, you two were hunting a skinwalker. You killed the bugger, but before you did it killed five people, including these two men. You found the bodies in a warehouse. Four days later, you saw those two men in a bar. One of them was drunk. Anyway, you confronted the two of them when they left. Your gun hands kept drifting away from the sober American one and when they left, you found yourselves not wanting to shoot. He had a limousine, chauffeur, and bodyguard with the car, which looked like a government limo but the man himself acted completely nonchalant, not even reacting to the guns—weird. When you boys went back to the warehouse where you found the bodies, there were no marking of the cops having been there but the bodies were gone. Do you remember what the guys were talking about in the bar?”  
“That’s about right,” Sam answered. “The British guy was talking about some captain guy and a woman whose name I don’t remember. He mentioned something about not having felt people in centuries, or something like that. The American responded that she didn’t live with the first guy anymore, so it couldn’t be that bad, or something like that. I’m not sure.”  
“Alright,” Bobby frowned. “I don’t know off the top of my head but we should be able to find something. You said you had a name?”  
Dean replied this time. “Yeah. The American was Alfred Jones, the Brit Arthur something. Didn’t get a last name there.”  
“Huh. Alright. I’ll look in my books, Sammy, you see if you can find something online.”  
“And me?” Dean asked.  
Sam and Bobby shared a glance. “You’re really not very good at research.”  
Dean huffed in exasperation and went to sit through the research stage without a laptop.  
  
A few hours later, Dean heard his brother whistle in surprise. “What?” he asked, coming over to lean over Sam’s shoulder.  
“Hey Bobby, guess what I found?”  
“What?” came the grunt from Bobby.  
Sam smiled slightly. “Exactly three hundred and six thousand, two hundred and seven photos and sketches of an Alfred F. Jones or Arthur Kirkland matching the descriptions we’re looking for.”  
“Oh, good,” said Bobby, coming to rest at Sam’s side. “I couldn’t find much of anything on them from my books. Not enough details. What do we got?”  
“The photos date back from… 1822? I didn’t think cameras were invented by then.”  
Bobby squinted at the photo a moment. “Neither did I. Look it up?”  
“Got it,” Dean said. “Must have been taken by this dude. Nicéphore Niépce, some French guy, according to Wikipedia.”  
“Who’s that guy? Do we know?”  
Sam shook his head. “No facial recognition on any of them, the curly-haired blond guy there included.”  
“Huh.” Bobby pursed his lips. “When’s the most recent photo? Do any of the same people show up throughout? How many of these things are we dealing with here?”  
Sam typed a few things into his search criteria. “Yep. No names though, at least not recurring ones. Looks like our guys mostly used pseudonyms.” He looked closer at the list of photos. “Wait a minute, isn’t that the photo from right before the Titanic set sail?” Right there, grinning like the world was ending, right next to the captain, was Alfred and on the captain’s other side, looking much more serious, the Brit.  
“Can you find the list of passengers?” Bobby demanded.  
“Of course.” A moment later, Sam had pulled it up. “Included on the highest-class guest list was one Alfred F. Jones and one Arthur Kirkland, separate cabins. According to this testimonial by one of the ship’s staff that made it out, they both adamantly refused to take lifeboats, instead helping as much as they could with the evacuation effort and finally going down with the ship, saying something about how they’d be fine, ‘their citizens’ were more important.”  
“Huh,” Dean frowned. “Do either of them pop up anywhere else important?”  
“Uhh…” Sam typed quickly, then leaned back in astonishment. At last he answered. “Everywhere, apparently. All the major historical events of the USA for the American since the invention of the camera and all the major historical events of England for our Mr. Kirkland since the same time. What the hell are these things?”  
  
Another four hours of research later, the three still hadn’t a clue what they were, though they had found a number of other humanoids who followed the same pattern. No further names were found.  
“I’m not thinking we’re gonna find what these are, boys. None of my books say anything useful, and I don’t think you’ve found much on the internet. I think you boys will just have to confront the things,” Bobby admitted.  
“Yeah,” Dean answered, “but how? How the hell are we supposed to pull information from something we can’t convince ourselves to attack?”  
  
Purple fire blazed a perfect circle around England as he ended his incantation. He swept his theatrical black robes around him and stepped back as an enormous, laughing, flaming figure rose from the center. Its head was tilted back behind its neck, but as it stood, the head snapped forward to stare at England through yellow eyes.  
“Magician…” it croaked.  
“Yes, yes,” the Englishman snapped. “Get on with it. I need to know about the Winchester family, to whit, those that are currently alive and active as hunters. What’s your price?”  
The creature smiled an enormous saffron grin. “I would ask for a bit of your life, but yours is potentially infinite. Give me… a kiss. That is all.”  
England flushed bright scarlet. He stammered. He raised his wand to blast the creature before remembering that its walls protected both ways—if he broke them to kill it, the creature would be able to break through as well. He glared daggers at the creature. “Revisal of terms. Now.”  
A fiery tongue licked the creature’s lips. “It may hurt. You will heal.”  
“I said, give me a revisal of the terms!” England puffed.  
It smiled. “Perhaps you would rather give me more than a kiss…”  
“No! A… kiss… will suffice,” England hastily amended. “It will suffice.”  
Blushing furiously, presumably in fury, but perhaps not, the nation took a large step forward to the edge of the barrier, and another past it to stand before the creature. England pulled away from the kiss as soon as possible, hacking from the smoke and ash invading his lungs and stumbling back across the barrier, blistered lips healing as he did. When he finally stood again, burn scars fading, the nation moved his tender tongue a moment around his mouth, then spoke. “The information?”  
The creature obediently began to recite.


	2. By the Pricking of my Thumbs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help needed, research needed, job needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thank you so much for continuing to read for this long, and I'm sorry I took so long to update. :) Feedback is welcome, and if anybody has some advice for writing Iceland, that would be especially welcome.

The brothers had tracked Alfred to a cheap deep-dish pizza parlor in Chicago right on the southwestern corner of Lake Michigan and now sat at a table next to him, eavesdropping on the creature’s conversation with the large, blond German across from him and Italian with an unlikely lock of hair springing from his head that seemed to fawn over him. Really, it was the Italian doing most of the talking, primarily about the pros and cons of pasta over pizza. The only sounds Alfred seemed to emitting were the sounds of busy chewing and swallowing, with an occasional garbled sentence around his food. The German appeared to be nursing a serious headache.  
“Will you two just shut up?!” Sam and Dean jumped as the German yelled, standing abruptly, vein pulsing on his forehead.  
“I have had enough of this already. We don’t get anything done at the meeting, Gilbert gives the micronations water pistols with the kick of a shotgun during lunch and they trash the restaurant. Arthur shows up late because of some mess with his imaginary friends, and Ivan half kills that obnoxious brat Sealand with his crowbar. I. Am going. Home!”  
All was silent for a moment before the Italian looked up at him, blinking wide and uncannily gold eyes. “What do you mean, Ger-Ludwig? I love you. Weren’t you going to stay at my place tonight and watch horror movies with me? Please please please please please???”  
Ludwig made no move as the Italian attached himself to his arm, only sighed inwardly and sat back down. “Fine,” he muttered. “Fine.”  
The Italian gave a whoop of joy, enveloping Ludwig in an even more enthusiastic hug.  
During this interval, Alfred had amazingly finished the two large pizzas he had for himself and stood up, grin shining bright as ever, unmarked by tomato sauce. “Thanks, dude, for the pizza! Best co-op project ever!”  
The Italian smiled, still latched on to Ludwig’s arm. “I am so glad you didn’t inherit Arthur’s cooking. If you did, I would never be able to go to restaurants in your country and I would have to make sure to remove you from your cities all the time, like I try to do with Arthur.”  
“Totally.” Alfred laughed expansively, pocketed the receipt for the meal, and went up to the counter to pay. As soon as the monster looked about to leave, Sam and Dean stood up to go pay for their much more reserved drinks and shared pizza, landing with a one-person interval between them and their quarry. As soon as Alfred left, Sam made a sign, acting as if he were going to the bathroom or something and followed him. The American sauntered out of the building, then turned and saw Sam.  
“Hey dude!” he waved energetically.  
Sam gave him a weird look before noticing that Alfred was looking at him, perfect grin included.  
“I saw ya listening in at the table, man! What’s up?”  
Sam could hardly help but walk up to the man, smiling politely. Best to state his terms, he supposed. “I saw you a week and a half ago in the middle of nowhere, Texas. It took me and my friend a week to drive here, taking all the shortcuts. You were sighted in New York for two days after you were in Texas, then immediately here. How did you do that?”  
“I flew, man! What do you expect?”  
Sam gave the man another questioning look. “Three local flights in under two weeks. Real likely, especially given that you don’t exactly seem like a big breadwinner.”  
The grin refreshed itself as he laughed. “Come on, bro, haven’t you heard the saying? ‘Never judge a book by its cover’? I mean, that’s what I do all the time, but you’d do well to choose differently. I mean, I suppose you can’t necessarily, but whatevs!”  
Dean was finally striding his way out of the pizza joint and up to the quarry. “So? What the hell are you?” He glanced at his brother. “I take it you haven’t gotten that out of him yet?”  
Sam shook his head. “I don’t know. Alfred, or whatever your name is? What are you?”  
Alfred chuckled. “Nah,” he said, “I don’t really feel like telling you guys just now, though I am totally a fan. You two do so much for my country, I just wish it weren’t weird to ask for an autograph.” His eyes were shining with excitement. “You should totally read that guy’s books about you, they’re totally accurate. I mean like, wow, accurate. You’re like superheroes! Real life superheroes!”  
A timely black limo pulled up from the parking lot and Alfred stepped in, opening the door for himself this time, though the larger man was visible in the front seat. “Anyway,” he finished cheerfully, “I’ll see you dudes later! Bye!”  
Dean lunged at the quarry as he turned to leave, but Alfred just kept moving, ripping his hand easily from the hunter’s grasp. He glanced back, once seated in the limousine, grin faded. “Ivan and the others would, like, totally kill me if I told you, and that wouldn’t be great news for you guys either. Sorry. You’re so freaking cool if it were up to me, I totally would! But I can’t.” he looked disappointed. “So goodbye!”  
Dean gave his brother a look. “Let’s try being nice, you said, and maybe he’ll open up. ‘Cause that worked out well.”  
  
England pushed his sunglasses off of his nose as the brothers got in their car. “At least America isn’t being too much of an appallingly puerile idiot,” he muttered as he turned and stepped gently sideways into a remarkably similar alley of London. “I suppose,” he continued with a frown, “I might want to recruit some aid. If those two are finding America, there must be some greater purpose. Trouble's brewing of a peculiarly supernatural species. Unfortunate.”  
  
“You know I am not supposed to practice Asatru anymore, Britain.” The young Nordic looked expressionlessly at England. “You’re the one who ensured that.”  
“You still have a temple and enough people. Iceland, I need your help, at least enough to see what those hunters of America’s are about to go up against. They never learn about their countries anymore unless they’ll have to be in close contact, meaning that these hunters are going to have to be in contact with America, and the spineless git is completely oblivious.”  
Iceland stood up, puffin on his shoulder. “I can ask Odin, or even Mimir if you think it’s serious enough. They might not answer, particularly not the latter.”  
“Thank you. Who is this… Mimir?” England looked curiously at the younger nation.  
Iceland looked down. “She is the spirit to whom Odin gave his eye in exchange for wisdom. She will likely ask a price for the knowledge. If I am willing to give it, I will. I may ask you to pay me back.”  
England tilted his head. “My Queen needs me, but it would be a pleasure to talk mythology sometime. Not now.”  
Iceland smiled. “Not now. Goodbye.”  
England got up, stretched, and left.  
  
“Didn’t work, huh?” Bobby’s voice scratched over the phone. “Figures. I’ve got another tip though, while we’re waiting for news on the long-lived monster-that-can’t-be-hurt front.”  
“Yeah?” Sam prompted. “Hang on, let me put you on speakerphone. Dean, Bobby’s got another tip.”  
“What is it?” Dean asked.  
There was the sound of clicking before Bobby answered. “Awright. I’ve found a couple of news articles poppin’ up recently, following something else. Sounds to me like a demon. Looks like an albino human, but it’s got and I quote ‘really weird red eyes’ and pointed teeth. Kills at the speed of a friggin’ tornado, grinnin’ the whole time. A bunch of cops tried to stop it once, it just smiled and walked outta there.”  
Dean raised his eyebrows. “Who’s given the reports?”  
“That last was from the cops who tried to arrest the thing. The others were just from bystanders and one reporter—except I’ve got one person here who was allegedly attacked by some other guy and woke up tied up before our weird-ass albino got there, untied him, and gleefully started cutting heads off the aggressor and people around him.”  
“So even if it’s not a monster,” Sam said, “It’s at least some freaky serial killer. Why’s this not getting any more publicity with a serial killer on the loose, perpetuating his works in public, no less?”  
Bobby snorted. “How should I know? I’m not a reporter.”  
“Where’s he headed to?” Dean asked.  
“The bugger was last sighted yesterday, checking into a cheap motel an hour or so east of downtown Indianapolis. Should only be maybe three hours away from you boys.”  
“Got it, Bobby. Thanks. Any suggestions before we get on our way?”  
“Just to make sure you’ve got plenty of holy water. I’m not sure, but I think this’s a demon.”   
“Alright. See ya later.”  
“Bye.” The phone disconnected and Sam stood up.  
“Ready to head out? Sounds like this guy’s been moving around a lot, so the location won’t be good much longer.”  
Dean looked at his brother, then sat suddenly up from where he reclined on the hotel bed. “Sure. Let me just check out of the motel and we can go gank something we know how to fight.”  
  
“I never thought I’d be asking you for help with anything tactical.” England leaned back and sipped at his tea, inferior though it was. Italy had tea, but generally preferred coffee and so what little of the more sophisticated drink he did possess wasn’t very good. “You see, America’s hunters, his exorcists if you will, have begun meeting him. As I’m sure you know, that normally only happens when some huge disaster is imminent. I believe your grandfather used to take you hunting as well. Do you remember any of that?”  
“Yep!” came the cheerful response, its owner grinning. “Grandpa Rome often took Romano and I hunting once we were old enough! That’s part of why he made sure we learned Latin. I still know all the things, I think.”  
“If—or when something pops up, can I count on you to help me fight it?”  
“Well I’ll probably just try to run away as usual, but maybe not! I can try!” Italy yawned, stretching like a cat. “Do you want to watch a horror movie with me?”  
England shook his head shortly. “I’m afraid I will have to take my leave as soon as I finish my tea. There is some preparation I will need to do momentarily. Iceland in all likelihood will not yet have an answer for me, but I could be wrong and I can always try asking my own friends again. Maybe Bunny will know.”  
“Who’s Bunny?” Italy asked.  
“Who’s Bunny? Bunny’s right here. Little green rabbit with wings? Ring any bells?”  
Italy blinked a couple times. “I… I think you might be imagining things, England. Or it could be me, of course, I do sometimes see the weirdest things, or in this case I suppose I don’t see the weirdest things, but whatever! I’ll see you later! Feel free to come have pasta at my place anytime, England, it might be your cooking making you see things, and I would be happy to help keep you from poisoning yourself! Try not to just eat your field rations, they’re really disgusting!”  
England held his anger carefully at bay against the insult to his cooking. “Of course, Veneziano. I will see you at a later time.”  
“Ciao!”  
  
"Take a look at this," Sam said. "Dean, I found an article."  
Dean craned his head away from the steering wheel toward the newspaper his brother held.  
"Actually," Sam replied, "Why don't you not look yourself? I'll describe it to you."  
Dean sighed. "Fine. Talk."  
"This reporter guy, an actual reporter, was at a fancy restaurant and saw what he described as 'a white-haired, humanoid devil' burst out of the closet with a _sword_."  
Dean raised his eyebrows. "A sword."  
"Yep. He also had a little yellow bird perched on his soldier."  
Dean snorted.  
"This dude then proceeded to threaten the maître d' with his sword, say what was apparently a variant of High German over a stolen pitcher of water, force the maître d' to drink, and run him through when he refused. According to the reporter, there was some weird electric malfunction at that point, probably due to the water that was spilled when our creature ran him through, and he then made everybody else drink. They all did, and there was no further chaos."  
"Why the hell's there so little press on this guy?"  
Sam sighed. "No idea. This was a reporter, he should know how to get some media attention. Under normal circumstances, there's no chance this would go unnoticed, at least not by the town or city newspaper. But all the article's in is one little vanity press. It's weird."  
"Weird as hell."

_  
Maybe I should try asking Romano,_ England thought to himself. _Then again, he'd probably ignore me in favor of swearing until Scotland was ready to blush, the little blighter. And what about Spain? I'd have to get that peacock out of the way somehow. Romano may not be his territory anymore but blimey is Spain protective of him._  
"Hey!" came a mocking voice. "Hey England-bastard!"  
England turned to face the approaching country. Dark brown hair, weird single hair poking up-- "Romano," he sighed. "To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?"  
The darker-haired twin levelled England a death glare so intense he felt half inclined to make sure there wasn't a dagger sticking out of his forehead.   
England resisted the urge, instead attempting to keep his temper under control.  
"I heard you talked to my stupid little brother about hunting, you bastard!"  
"That is true," England said as soothingly as he could. "and I was about to try and ask you the same."  
Romano rolled his eyes. "Right, you sh*tty bastard, because I should believe a single f**king word you say."  
"What is the reason behind your approaching me, Romano?" His own temper was getting hot.  
"I heard that you tried to talk that idiote Veneziano into hunting again! He can't! He's too innocent, he'd never be of any use, the f**king idiote would just run into the demons and die! He can't hunt, he can't even fight! And you want to depend on him? Why do you want to go hunting, anyway? It's a f**king horrible job and can you imagine one of us getting possessed?"  
"You know as well as I do," England replied coldly, "that we cannot be possessed. We made a deal with Crowley on that when he came into power, and his predecessor before him."  
"And how likely are a bunch of f**king demons to follow that god-d*mned rule when everything goes to sh*t anyway? Is that why you're planning to start hunting? Because everything's about to go to f**king sh*t?"  
England's temples started to pound. "Yes. It is. Those two American hunters that I'm sure you've never heard of, being the little brat that you are, they met America and I. Do you really think that bodes well for the future?"  
There was a pause.  
"You f**king bastard! You called me a brat? I'll show you brat! Veneziano's a brat, he can't do anything f**king useful with his god-d*mned life, now can he?"  
"Something." England reiterated, punching each word, "Wicked. This. Way. Comes." 


End file.
